


Closing the Distance

by PieceOfCait, ShitpostingfromtheBarricade



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Don't copy to another site, Furry mentions, Grantaire pov, Kinda, Long-Distance Friendship, M/M, Zoom Call, collab with thepiecesofcait, enemies to friends to ?????, like it takes place in a pandemic world, pre-dating, quarantine fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:28:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26970646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PieceOfCait/pseuds/PieceOfCait, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade/pseuds/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade
Summary: After Grantaire is forced home early from his study abroad excursion, he and Enjolras stay in touch.Featuring artwork fromThePiecesOfCaitWarnings:references to the pandemic
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 178





	Closing the Distance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PieceOfCait](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PieceOfCait/gifts).



> Beta-read by the truest blessing of all blessings, [PieceOfCait](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PieceOfCait/pseuds/PieceOfCait).
> 
> Today marks two years since she first responded to my ridiculously specific request for a reader; since then, she has become an incredibly near and dear friend and collaborator in the fandom and has stayed beside me through the highs, lows, and genuinely bizarre. I feel so very lucky that I traumatized her enough with my bathtub fic to con her into following me, and I look forward to many more years with her by my side as a fellow creator and friend. <3

When the blip at the bottom of the screen finally appears, Grantaire is already prepared for the 720p image that greets him.

“Sorry I’m late,” says a harried-looking Enjolras. “I was on the phone, my alarm must have silenced itself —”

“You’re fine,” Grantaire grins. “S’not like I’m going anywhere any time soon.”

“You are moving right now.”

“I’m bi and haven’t changed sitting positions in an entire fifteen minutes. Sue me.”

It’s A Thing, these weekly calls — weirder yet, the calls have been A Thing for six months now. For most of his first term studying in Paris, he and Enjolras had had a very ‘we’ll collectively try to ignore one another’s existence’ kind of relationship; it was for the greater good. This was harder to keep up the second term when it was discovered that both of them had signed up for a gen ed that, mystery of mysteries, contained all of six people. That had taught them how to cohabit the same conversation, and they had been well on their way to establishing a solid acquaintanceship when the pandemic had recalled Grantaire to Montreal. One week later, the first call had come.

“That’s not a thing.”

“Whatever you say, Pretzel King.”

Enjolras’s eyes narrow. “You take that back.”

“I might if I thought you were more offended about being called a pretzel — which, look how you’re seated, some hipster artisan baker clearly dreamed up that sitting position in a fit of queer inspiration — than a king, which I know is not the case.”

“It could be.”

“It’s not.”

“Hmph.”

Before that first call, Grantaire never would have thought Enjolras capable of such immaturity. Hell, _after_ that first call he’d been left baffled enough not to have any fucking clue what was going on. WhatsApp had started ringing, he’d answered, and after an awkward fumbling at establishing that the correct contact had indeed been reached, Enjolras had launched into the mother of all vents. 

“So what’ve you been up to this week? Things over there are still pretty much closed, right?”

Enjolras makes a face. “Not as strictly as they should be, but yes.”

“Lamarque couldn’t make her case?”

“She made it. Capitalist greed won out.”

“It _has_ been six months.”

“'It _has_ been' over thirty thousand deaths.”

Grantaire sighs. “Still better than America.”

“That’s not a standard, that’s a warning.

 _“You’re_ a warning.”

“I take that as a compliment.”

“You would.”

Six months ago Enjolras had been stressed as all hell. Combeferre was doing 14-hour shifts in the hospital, Feuilly was panicking over job security, Bahorel was fumbling through making arrangements for flying home to care for his parents, Marius was giving Courfeyrac daily heart attacks, and Jehan had decided that it was the appropriate time to begin exploring the 1400s (if Enjolras were to ask Grantaire, he’d say that he thinks it was the perfect time for this; Enjolras has never asked). Enjolras had told Grantaire all of this, barely stopping to breathe, and then he’d told Grantaire how helpless he felt to do anything in the midst of the panic and chaos. He couldn’t take to the streets, he couldn’t write to politicians, he couldn’t even knuckle down and focus on law school: all he could do was wait and try to serve as a beacon of calm to friends who were anything but. 

“So what was the call about? Clearly something important, to miss our 11 o’clock date.” 

This has the intended effect of making Enjolras frown. “I didn’t miss it, I was late. We were discussing assistance, mostly, and the kinds of continued support unemployed individuals and small businesses may need as the pandemic continues.”

“Can you get Netflix to put Hannibal back on? I wasn’t done with it yet.”

“You’re not French.”

“I’m French-Canadian, that has to count for something.”

“How has your day been?” 

Grantaire hadn’t asked Enjolras before why he’d chosen to call Grantaire of all people, and Enjolras didn’t volunteer a reason. Grantaire didn’t think he’d been of much use — after the vent he just rambled about Canada’s shitty cheese selection and the anime Joly and Bossuet had taken all of three days to get him hooked on — but that must have been okay, because the next week there was another call, and that time it had been Enjolras’s turn to complain about France’s terrible late-night television.

Enjolras’s current question leaves Grantaire tapping his stylus against the tip of his nose thoughtfully. “Well, the furries are back with a vengeance, so that’s great for business. I may have to close commissions for a while until I get caught up.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” says Enjolras, and he sounds really genuinely sincere about it. “Is that what you’re working on now?”

“Nah,” Grantaire lies, because Enjolras has a terrible habit of ruthlessly pursuing things he ought not to, and even though today it’s just a PG rendering of someone’s fursona, it’s a precedent he’d rather not set. “Just doodling shit for now.”

“You’ll have to send me some of your work sometime.”

There’s a sound on the other end, and Grantaire is saved from having to tell yet another heinous lie like ‘Yeah, I’ll get right on that’ by the sound of Combeferre getting in. Enjolras removes the earbud with the mic to exchange what sounds more or less like pleasantries and basic household/friendship chitchat before returning his attention to the video call.

“Blow Ferre a kiss for me.”

“Combeferre says ‘hi.’”

“I can’t help but notice a distinct lack of kiss-blowing.”

“I’m not doing that.”

“I will hang up the video call right now.”

“You won’t.”

He won’t. “I will.”

Some indistinct noises sound from Enjolras’s end that make him sigh and pinch the bridge of his nose before he says, “Combeferre says to blow you a kiss too.”

“Well?” grins Grantaire. “I’m waiting.”

Video calls had been inadvisable, really. Grantaire would say that he has no idea how they graduated to them, except he knows exactly how, because it had been equal parts endearing and scarring. Monsieur ‘I Can Do Anything I Set My Mind To’ Enjolras had taken Grantaire’s offhanded recommendation to ‘I don’t fucking know, get a hobby’ to heart and decided to teach himself how to make bread. It hadn’t gone well, but with Grantaire talking Enjolras through every step of the five-hour process, including and especially the time in between kneads when Enjolras showed Absolutely No Chill Whatsoever, something passably resembling bread that was probably even edible had been produced.

A long-suffering but exquisitely vermillion Enjolras blows a stiff, grudging kiss over the camera once before directing another at Grantaire, which Grantaire makes a show of grabbing from the air and slapping onto his cheek with a saucy wink. “I’ll text Ferre my appreciation.”

“Of course you will.”

Rearranging his limbs so he can lean back in his chair, Grantaire steeples his fingers in what he feels is a deeply conniving manner. “I don’t know if I’ve told you lately —”

“You have, last week.”

“— but you sound more Parisian every week —”

“I don’t.”

“— and it is _unbearably_ sexy.”

“Subjective.”

“And I am the subject.” The sexiness of the Parisian accent is definitely debatable, and Grantaire definitely just says it to get a rise out of Enjolras, but the effects of pretentious r’s in the mouth of a pretty blond are rather undeniable. “Is Combeferre sounding more Parisian too? Because I’ve got to tell you, if your roommate gets any hotter, I might have to marry him.”

“That’s between the two of you.”

“Picking out rings as we speak.”

“Why don’t I ever see your roommates anymore?”

Joly and Bossuet used to make frequent guest appearances, back when calls were still generally taken in the living room or along a restless path through the flat. It had been fun to see the two worlds collide, and an odd pride had welled in him to see various important people in his life getting along; appearances had slowed when the teasing about his infatuation started seeming less like a joke and had stopped altogether when Grantaire realized that his flatmates were right. 

Whatever, his room has a spinny chair anyway. “Top Ten Anime Villains got them.”

“Ah. Send some carnations to their families for me.”

“Sure thing, Chief.”

This week must have been more taxing than Enjolras had let on because he yawns, chest pressing out as he leisurely rolls his shoulders. There’s something distinctly cat-like about the motion, and Grantaire thinks if he had any less self-respect it might be a fun drawing study. Alas, he has been alcohol-free since getting back, and his therapist says he’s ‘making progress,’ whatever weight that clinical evaluation bears. “Any news yet on when you’ll be back?”

Ah. This again. “You’ll probably know before I do, what with your ins to political proceedings and whatnot.”

“You still had a couple of months left in your program —”

“Two months, _ish.”_

“— and that summer internship lined up with the museum!” 

Grantaire has regretted mentioning that stupid internship to Enjolras since the moment it crossed his lips. “If I didn’t give a shit I could probably get to Paris now, but I wouldn’t have anything to do, and the exchange program hasn’t given any updates. Honestly, I don’t even know if it’d be worth it, it’s just two months of a term I already finished. If I keep on top of my shit I’ll be graduating next spring, so it’s not like I’d have an excuse to be going back anyway, besides dicking about Europe — though dicking about Europe could be fun. Sounds like something my parents might fund if I phrased it the right way. ‘Cultural exchange,’ perhaps. ‘Fresh air and exercise.’ ‘Rubbing elbows with up and coming politicians.’”

“Jehan says that the professor you two had together was asking about you. Ey said he’s interested in taking you on as an apprentice.”

“Which is fine, but Gros specializes in oils, and my focus is digital art and graphic design.”

Enjolras’s expression turns carefully blank as he unfolds his limbs to sit with his feet on the floor, leaning forward so that his elbows rest on his knees. “Are you planning on staying in Canada, then?”

“Fuck, Enj, I don’t know. Maybe? The world’s been … I don’t know. I thought I had a plan, and then the universe threw a wrench in it, and then I didn’t have a plan anymore. Borders are closed, people are dying, world leaders are doing fuck all, and you’re asking me what I’m doing next year?”

It’s not the first time the thought has crossed Grantaire’s mind, but hearing Enjolras asking, _insisting_ over and over like he actually cares about whether or not Grantaire returns to Paris, has been doing things to his head. On a conscious level he is well aware that what he and Enjolras have is purely platonic, two friends helping one another through a hard time; he’s even aware that there is a not insignificant chance that this thing is only A Thing from a distance and that as soon as he returns they might just go back to avoiding one another outside of academic environments. None of this stops the weak kick of hope in his heart every time Enjolras does something stupid like asking when he’ll be back.

Another time, Enjolras probably would have decided that this conversation wasn’t worth his time and left Grantaire to stew in his own directionless frustration. It’s half what he expects tonight; instead, he hears Enjolras ask, quietly, “Do you want to come back?”

Does he? His parents returned to Brazil pretty much as soon as Grantaire graduated high school, but he has friends here. He has connections, too, and if commissions ever stop paying the bills he could easily get a day job. It’s not like if he goes to Paris there’s any guarantee that his uni friends will even stick around the city, much less that Enjolras will suddenly decide that spoiled art students who still struggle to get through the day without a drink are exactly his type. Despite all of this, he hears himself slowly respond, “Yeah. I think I do.”

A smile breaks across Enjolras’s face. “Good. I know a fair amount about Canadian politics, but I’m afraid my English would be woefully inadequate, and an arrest record like mine can be difficult to look past without a significant number of connections.”

Is Grantaire understanding Enjolras correctly? 

Probably not. Better not to dwell. “You’re not making any sense.”

A shrug. “Maybe not. It is rather late here, as you so often remind me.”

“What can I say? I enjoy living in the past.”

“I know.” Enjolras sounds almost fond, and it’s intensely fucking with Grantaire’s head. He gives another yawn, shoulders pulling back and arms curled up like some kind of fucked up bird or a pterodactyl or something, and Grantaire decides to call it.

“Hey, it seems like you have a long week ahead of you, and it’s only Monday.”

“I didn’t —”

“You were in a phonecall at 11 at night.”

“Justice never rests.”

“All right Batman, but here’s the thing: you do.”

“It’s barely been twenty minutes.”

“If you think you’re gonna miss my mug that much between now and next week, we can schedule another call.”

“Yeah, okay,” Enjolras manages through another yawn. “I’d like that.”

 _Not_ reading into it. Sleepy Enjolras is an affectionate bastard, It Is Known. If he were there Enjolras would probably already be butting his head against Combeferre’s shoulder. Fuck, Grantaire needs to cut back on the furry commissions, or at least his consumption of weeb shit. “Right. We’ll text. G’night, then.”

“Have a nice rest of your day. Take care, stay safe —”

“Wear my mask, wash my hands, I’ve got it,” Grantaire interrupts, chest warm and painful at the same time. “Sweet dreams.”

“See you soon.”

“See you soon.”

**Author's Note:**

> [ThePiecesOfCait](https://thepiecesofcait.tumblr.com/) did the amazing, gorgeous, wonderful art; the first piece can be found [here](https://thepiecesofcait.tumblr.com/post/631782628903763968/sorry-im-late-says-a-harried-looking-enjolras), and the second is [here](https://thepiecesofcait.tumblr.com/post/632860770274820096/part-two-of-my-half-from-this-years-anniversary)!
> 
> If you wanna give me feedback or love (because I adore both so, so much) you can comment below or reach out to me on [tumblr](http://shitpostingfromthebarricade.tumblr.com)!!


End file.
